


For the Broken

by Maggie_Conagher



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Conagher/pseuds/Maggie_Conagher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John adores Christmas. Sherlock does not. With good reason. </p><p>Different 'verse than Newlywed Blues</p><p>I wanted to share my Christmas card from last year. This is for everyone who dreads Christmas because it does not look like the one in movies and carols. </p><p>Note warnings/tags, please. </p><p>This was my first major story in the fandom. THE Verity Burns volunteered to beta and brit pick for me. I am still grateful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson had always been out of his mind about Christmas. He started fizzing with it the first of November and clung to it well into Twelfth Night, taking the decorations down at the eleventh hour to squeeze out every last drop of Yuletide. He baked biscuits and little cakes and made ornaments from tinfoil and played Christmas carols until they lost all meaning. He had a Santa hat with his name embroidered on it. 

But this year was going to be the celebration to end all celebrations, his first official Christmas with Sherlock, together in their own bed in their own flat. They had been starting something the previous year but not enough to carry the weight of a full Watson’s worth of merriment so John had spent it with Harry soused to the gills while Sherlock had ridden with Mycroft to Mummy’s for the dreaded Christmas dinner. At Sherlock’s return, the flat had been filled with a terrible silence on the consulting detective’s side of things except for random shouted invectives directed at relatives John had never heard of. 

This year in the beginning, John had been pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s cooperation with their preparations until he realized that it wasn’t an embracing of a Watson-Holmes Christmas so much as a rejection of the traditional Holmes dinner. An unfortunate eavesdrop on a Mycroftian phone call of guilt had stung. Sherlock was brilliantly subtle with his mix of truthful resentment about the dinner and his feigned and hesitant embrace of John’s customs. 

“Mycroft, I’m sure Mummy will be devastated, but then she still has you, doesn’t she? John wants us to establish some traditions of our own. I have to be a good boyfriend. He’s baking mince pies and there’s going to be a tree. Isn’t a healthy relationship what you’ve always wanted for me?”

Sherlock snapped his phone and his heart shut. Without even making eye contact, he grabbed coat and scarf and hurled an explanation back at John while taking the stairs at a gallop. St. Bart’s again and likely another all nighter. 

Even if he had trimmed the tree alone, at least John had convinced Sherlock to help him choose it and drag it back to their flat, and he had caught Sherlock watering it before Mycroft’s call. Still, the distance hurt. They had been doing so well at communicating. Private Sherlock was completely different from public Sherlock. John had been happy. 

There hadn’t been any enormous seasonal demands on public or private Sherlock. No, John had kept things very simple for the first time. Decorations but nothing that disturbed experiments or essential piles. Christmas music played quietly, an all orchestral cd featuring strings that John had bought especially. John would attend Christmas eve services alone when he really wanted a hand in his during the prayers, and then presents when he got home after midnight. Dinner for two, which he would cook on Christmas Day. Sherlock had agreed to all of it until John had asked for the one tradition that had never wavered since John Watson’s 18th year, Christmas on his own at university. Sherlock’s refusal had been absolute. 

“I will not watch clay figures jerk about to an ancient sound track. I will not contract diabetes from baby animals and elves frolicking and I will not learn the ‘true meaning’ of the holiday.” The greatest and only consulting detective had used air quotes far too close to the tip of John’s nose.

John thought about hopes he had for future Christmases once Sherlock was more compliant. He recalibrated. No Christmas card pictures with John in his personalized Santa hat and Sherlock in an elf hat. No skating hand in hand at the park. No caroling for Mrs. Hudson. No secret Santa with Lestrade and Donovan. No snow angels. Those were right out. 

The impasse was on day nine with no end in sight. Sherlock had not called or texted or answered calls or texts all day, and John had thirty minutes of down time while pastry dough chilled in the refrigerator beside a quart jar of an unknown black liquid. He was going to watch _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ while eating warm mince pies that he had baked himself. There was going to be peace on earth and peace in his fucking flat if he had to do it at gunpoint. He called Molly.

“Dr. Hooper, would you happen to have an extra consulting detective lurking about down there?”

Molly’s voice was shrill. “Yes, I do and you’d best come and get him before I do him an injury.”

“That bad?”

“For weeks. What are you asking of him at home, John? He gave me a look so vicious this morning that a clump of my hair fell out.”

“Is he accomplishing anything?”

“Three things. Brooding, staring, and destroying my self esteem.”

John considered the fact that Molly’s self esteem had been in the skip long before Sherlock, but he needed help. “He won’t pick up for me. Molly, would you see if he’ll speak to me on your phone?”

Molly’s voice. “It’s for you, Sherlock.”

A pause and rustle.

“No.” Disconnect. 

While he waited for the pastry dough, John cut out gingerbread men with his grandmum’s old cutter. He had let Harry and the cousins have it all except her recipe for mincemeat and this battered, cast iron shape. He mixed frosting in three tubs along with a larger tub of white for piping. The buttons were always yellow, the eyes Watson blue, and the smile was red. He was running low on red food coloring for reasons he could not imagine, and the frosting looked more like the sickly pink stuff used for dental molds. He pinched the tube until he got the deep holiday red that said, “I’m happy. Please eat me.” He wished Sherlock would say the same. 

When that round of baking was complete and put away, he gathered all of the ingredients for the mince pies on the table, including the mincemeat that he had made himself, thank you very much. They would bake just before viewing. The jammy dodgers and chocolate digestives were in the cupboard with the crisps. 

That first lonely Christmas as a student when he didn’t have the fare to go home, he had taken the last of his pocket money to buy the tape and store bought biscuits and crisps. On the way back from the shop, he had foolishly checked his box again to find the package from his grandmother with gingerbread men and mince pies just like they had always made together. He had held in the tears until he was safely shut in his room. And the day the package had come, December 13th became Rudolph Day

There had been many Christmases since in all sorts of living conditions but he could go back in his mind to that first, which had been the loneliest, and the beginning sounds of the video, which he had memorized, would make him feel loved and wanted. His mum and dad had been worrisome and died young; Harry had carried on their love affair with the bottle, but they had all always loved him in their way. He was accustomed to making good holidays for difficult people; still he didn’t have to be masochistic about it. You could lead a Holmes to Christmas but you couldn’t make him think…. That it was lovely and beautiful and special and important to the relationship.

All afternoon, he had been productive and stoic and furious. As long as he kept busy, he wouldn’t have to stare at the words that marqueed across his mind. INFLEXIBLE STROPPY OBLIVIOUS UNREASONABLE PETTY SCROOGE SELFISH WANKER

The last one was hypocritical, considering what he did in the shower. “Merry Fucking Christmas, John. You just grudge fucked yourself.”

He groomed with extra care, shaving close while averting his sad eyes. He put on his ancient Rudolph jumper. Rudolph had reached maximum plumpness last year but with some effort, the big red nose was in front of John’s navel again where it needed to be. Even though he had taken extra pains with his hair, he put on his Santa hat. 

The dvd would go in the player, the mince pies would go in the oven, and then he would try to reach Sherlock one more time but would likely spend the evening alone. Once the flat was filled with the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg, he dialed the morgue. 

“I’m sorry, Molly. I need to try one more time. It’s important or I wouldn’t trouble you.”

Why did she always sound like someone had just smashed a kitten against the wall? “I don’t know where he went. He muttered something about shopping.”

“Sherlock doesn’t shop. Ever."

“Then you’re on your own.”

He sat with the phone in his hand for a long time before he texted. 

_Come at once._

_Fuck convenience._

_It will be dangerous._

_JW_

The mince pies were out of the oven, golden and steaming on a special tray borrowed from Mrs. Hudson; all the other treats were arranged on the coffee table on little china Christmas plates he had found at a charity shop. He had even used a cozy so that the tea would stay warm throughout the video. He poured tea into his mug, added the milk from a small Santa pitcher, stirred and sipped. It was good.

Nothing left for it but to carry on. His thumb ached as he pressed play. There were seven minutes and forty five seconds of advertisements and previews. Seven minutes for Sherlock to change his mind. Six minutes for Sherlock to come home to him. Five minutes for his relationship to right itself. Four minutes for his life to still make sense. Three minutes, or one preview, left before it would really start hurting. Two minutes before… No. 

Two feet on the stairs. One consulting detective with a shopping bag, striding across the room, sliding his coat off and tossing it on the chair. He plopped down and slid until his legs were under the coffee table and his head resting on the back of the sofa. He didn’t look at John, but John was content to have him near. They both stared straight ahead at the snowman rolling over the hill with his brolly, resembling Mycroft at his highest weight.

John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand and said around the lump in his throat, “Thank you.”

 

_If you want a happy Christmas ending, stop here. If you want some Christmas angst, or Chrangst, see Chapter 3 for a dark reveal. There are triggers. Please be careful._


	2. Chapter 2

As Rudolph lived out his angsty young existence on the screen, John could feel the waves of resentment rolling off Sherlock even after he had pulled his crushed fingers from Sherlock’s death grip. The loaded silence, the staring straight ahead, the checking of the watch. He’d had a more romantic exchange with a stranger, waiting for a lift.

Squirming reached a maximum as the weary travelers left the Island of Misfit Toys. Without explanation, Sherlock gathered up his shopping bag and left as if his train had just come in. The bedroom door closed quietly when John was expecting a slam. John tried the door but it was locked. Nine days’ worth of pent up frustration took less than nine seconds to boil over. “You fucking coward. Come out here and face me like a man.”

“Give me one bloody minute.”

“Why should I? You couldn’t give me one fucking hour. It was the only thing that I asked of you other than helping me carry the blessed tree."

Full head of steam, confident in his righteousness, he continued, his voice getting louder with each lecturing phrase. “In a relationship, there are compromises. Even you can see, that I have done more than my share of compromising, more than my share of doing things that I did not like for your sake. I have given and given without asking for anything in return because in a relationship, that’s what people DO!”

It echoed. He smelled chlorine. Oh god. His legs started to go so he leaned against the wall. There was a pause long enough for John’s vision to return and his heart to leave his throat and drop back down in his chest. 

From behind the door, a small voice that could not be Sherlock’s. “John?”

Very politely. “Yes?”

“I have a present for you. I’ll be ready once your program is finished.”

John walked slowly back to the sofa. He sat down, but he did not pour cosied hot tea or nibble a mince pie or press play. He felt himself grow small enough to be mangled by one of the gingerbread men and he waited. 

Twenty minutes later the bedroom door opened. “You can come in now.”

At 221B, John expected surprises that exploded or smelled of death or stared at him with lifeless eyes. He did not expect cut glass round candle holders with clear tea lights. The flames looked like they were dancing in midair all along the windowsill. 

Sherlock was stark naked, and after blinking for a long beat, John hurried to join the nudity although he did spare a thought to slip the staring eyes of jumper Rudolph under his jeans. The sex had been rushed recently, and then their mild feud had made things perfunctory. John wanted slow and soft and warm with whispers.

But apparently there was another plan in place. John reached for his love to have a proper kiss, but Sherlock reached for a large bag. “I went shopping for us.”

Sherlock seemed hurried almost manic as he pulled several bottles from the bag. “Body paint and oral gel. Here, this one will be your favorite.”

He squeezed a little onto his finger and held it out for John. Cool tingly mint teased at John’s tongue, but when he went to share the flavor with a kiss, he got more demonstration.

“The store was brilliant. We have to go back there, but I got us enough for the holidays.”

John wasn’t a prude, nor was he adverse to toys, but he and Sherlock had been content for many months with each other’s bodies. They purchased lube at the chemist's and it was enough. One time they had run low and used olive oil and the scent had made for an interesting change, but something was strange about this sudden interest. 

“Is this for a case, Sherlock?”

“No, you said that you loved candy canes so much you wanted to marry one so…” he made a gesture as if he were offering a cheese tray or biscuit plate when he handed the bottle of mint gel to John so that his hands were free to pull a red and white striped dildo and matching plug from the bag.

John couldn’t believe that his plan to eat mince pies had been replaced by an erotic smorgasbord. He sank to the bed where his arse made contact with something other than the duvet. 

“What am I sitting on?”

“A furry red blanket."

“Not that I’m complaining but why?”

Sherlock’s answer was rather shy, almost an apology. “The directions said that the red lotion might stain.”

John could almost see his own smile light up the room. “Clever boy. I would have never thought.”

“I got us new sheets too."

John crawled over enough to pull back the corner of the duvet. “You sure as hell did. Red flannel."

Sherlock was still hovering and he hadn’t met John’s eyes even once. “Am I forgiven for leaving your program?”

“Of course. Besides we can watch it another night.”

Sherlock was digging again in the bag and produced a blinking Rudolph nose on a bit of elastic. “What if I wore this?”

John felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, and he hadn’t felt that way since their first time together. “Thank you for being sexy Santa but I’m a bit overwhelmed. Could we snog awhile until I catch up?”

“You don’t like them.”

“I like them very much. I hope Mycroft has ample footage of you purchasing them. But all I’ve ever needed is your body, Sherlock. Kiss me?”

Sherlock plopped down on the bed as if defeated and cupped John’s face in his hands. He brushed their lips first and then deepened the kiss. John was hungry for him and drew Sherlock’s tongue in, but something was off. Kisses had always been their emotional barometer since talk of feelings was difficult at the easiest of times for Sherlock. The kiss told John that something was terribly wrong. 

John struggled to see in the flickering candle light, but when he looked, really looked in his lover’s eyes, there was sadness and fear. “These past few weeks, you weren’t intending to be stroppy, were you?”

A vigorous shake of the head that brought a curl low over one eye, but John could still see the tear that tracked down a pale cheek and glittered in the candle light.

“My god, Sherlock, what happened at Christmas time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is about truth. If we can talk openly about sick and ugly things instead of letting them fester as secrets, then we can make the world safer for victims to come forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains why Christmas is so difficult for him. 
> 
> This chapter contains detailed description of child sexual abuse. Be mindful of your triggers.

They lay side by side, looking into each other’s eyes and before Sherlock even spoke, John was gripped by his pain.

“I wanted to give you what you needed, John. I tried so hard.“

“I know.“ John brushed Sherlock’s tears away but he couldn’t keep up.

“I thought I could provide an acceptable alternative so you wouldn’t have to know.“

“I’m afraid intimacy doesn’t work that way. If you are hurting and I’m not being a complete sod, then I hurt with you. What happened? Was it the video?”

Sherlock sighed. “We always went to Mummy’s sister’s for Christmas eve. Aunt Susan had bought Rudolph for the children to watch while the adults had cocktails. It was awful. A character mocked and isolated for his differences, a group of toys that nobody wanted. It’s foolish, I know, but I was so lonely and watching my own life acted out was too much. I left the room, saying that it was boring and babyish, but the cousins had seen that I was near tears.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I cry over it every year.”

Sherlock gripped John’s fingers tightly. “I ran into my uncle’s study and the more I tried to hold it in, the bigger it got. Uncle David came in and pulled me close and I was lost. I didn’t even care how bad he smelled. I just hung on.”

“Your uncle smelled bad?” John was trying to keep things grounded for Sherlock.

“He always smelled of garlic, but he probably didn’t know because his nostrils were packed with hair. Enormous hairy arms too.”

Sherlock’s lips were curled with disgust and John suspected with a sinking feeling that more than a hug had occurred. He hoped to be wrong. John’s mouth was dry but the question had to be asked, “What happened after the hug?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted everywhere but he wouldn’t look at John. “Father came in. He was drunk, not that unusual but the swearing was, ‘Fuck it all, David, don’t coddle him. He’s already more girl than boy.’”

John’s hackles rose at the unfamiliar voice in Sherlock’s mouth. He wished his lover weren’t such an excellent mimic.

“On the way home, I pretended to be asleep and heard him telling Mummy. ‘A big boy of eleven crying like a toddler over a television program. I was mortified. David will rub it in for years.’ Mummy didn’t say anything so I knew she was angry with me too.”

“She could have been trying to appease him.”

“No, she had always stood up for me before. Mycroft already had his own flat. My nanny was gone and they had thrown out my teddy when I went to school. It was just me cut loose in the world.”

Sherlock turned away from John to fold himself into a ball, but John was strong. He hugged Sherlock tight and talked low and quick into his ear. “You aren’t alone anymore. I need you exactly as you are. You can’t be misfit when I need you so much.”

Nothing he said tonight was going to fix anything of the past. They would need years of Sherlock being fully loved and accepted to undo the damage of one selfish bastard who should never have been near children. Still John tried. “Do you know what happened in the part you’ve never seen?”

Sherlock shook his head, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“The thing that makes Rudolph different from everybody else turns out to be what they need most and he saves the day. He guides Santa through the fog to get the misfit toys and they all are given to children who need them.”

While John stroked his curls, Sherlock made several attempts to speak and finally settled on, “I’m cold.” 

“Of course you are. Could you drink some tea?”

“I don’t know. I’m rather nauseous.”

“Let’s at least try. We’ll get you under the duvet first.”

“Wait.“ Sherlock hung over the edge of the bed, reaching far under, and produced an elegantly wrapped package.

“But Christmas is still two weeks away.“

“This isn’t a Christmas gift. It’s part of the romantic evening.“

“Can I have the light on? Just to see it properly.”

In the brighter light, John tore away the fancy wrapping before his eyes were accustomed to the light so his first impression of the gift was softness. Then something blue. Finally, he could see that it was a posh blue dressing gown. He took it straight out of the box and put it on. Next to Sherlock’s sweet arse, it was the most wonderful thing he had ever had against his skin. He ran his hand down the velvety sleeve. “I’m petting myself. Damn, Sherlock, this is lovely.”

He went to the mirror and preened, knowing that showing pleasure in the gift might be the best tonic for Sherlock’s hurts. “It’s monogrammed.”

“You seem to like things with your name on.”

“Probably because someone keeps borrowing my things.”

“Not this time. I have one of my own.”

Sherlock unwrapped his and held it up for John’s approval.

“Rich plum color. Oh, that’s good. Let’s get it on you. Warm you up.”

They faced each other, glancing occasionally into the mirror. “It’s far too grand for me,” John said, reaching up to give Sherlock a chaste thank you kiss.

Sherlock traced the design above John’s name. “This is your family crest for the clan of Watson.”

“I didn’t even know we had one.”

“The Latin says, ‘It has flourished beyond expectation.’“

“Yes, it has.” John took the hand that was tracing over the crest and linked it with his.

Sherlock shivered violently when John tucked him under the covers as if the promise of warmth had taken his stoicism. “I’ll get that tea now,” John said, smiling and kissing Sherlock’s forehead.

In the kitchen, John switched on the kettle and leaned heavily against the table. Did he have the option of letting the story stop where it was? He could go back to the bedroom with tea and they would snog a little and fall asleep under fading candle light, warm in their new flannel sheets with the serpent secret curled between them.

Here was one of those times when John didn’t want to be a doctor or use his vastly improved powers of observation. He wanted to be naïve and stupid and happy. Besides, he was just skirting the edge of all the horror he felt that Sherlock had been carrying so much pain around for the entire time they had known each other. How terrible were the other things John hadn’t observed?

But John hadn’t become a soldier because he was trepidatious. He made the tea and hurried back to their room. Sherlock was regal in purple, sitting up and waiting. “Let it steep a bit, but you’ll have the warmth of it in your hands.”

Sherlock curled his long fingers around the mug, resting it on his knees which he pulled into his chest. John switched the light back off and let the candles once again create a more intimate space. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, facing Sherlock. When their eyes met, they both held their breath for a moment.

John brushed his fingers across Sherlock’s and plunged. “Your father’s cruelty wasn’t the worst of it.”

“No.“

John could feel the struggle pouring off Sherlock in waves.

“I can’t tell you, John. It would be the end of us.”

“Nothing you do or say would ever end us.”

Fear was obscene on Sherlock’s face and John felt fury battling with grief in his gut. He took one of Sherlock’s hands and kissed it, glad to feel some warmth back in his fingers. “All that I want is for you to help me understand so that next Christmas, I can make it better for you even if that means no celebration at all. You’ve got to tell me, love.“

In recent months, John had become masterful at loaded pauses. Unless he was the instigator, Sherlock could not tolerate a pregnant pause and would fill it. This was their longest ever. John was just about to fetch his own tea when Sherlock blurted, “Uncle David put his fingers inside me.”

John pulled his legs up on the bed so he was in front of Sherlock, his face in what he hoped was an attentive and supportive expression.

Sherlock’s voice was low and flat. “One minute he was hugging me, the next he had my trousers down. I fought but I was small for my age and the way he was holding me, the more I struggled, the more it hurt. I begged him to stop.”

John was again torn between white rage and grief. He swallowed hard, letting his soldier’s training shut down his own emotion so he could focus on Sherlock.

“He didn’t stop jabbing into me until he came and I was throbbing by then. He let go of himself and squeezed my cock hard and that hurt too.”

Sherlock was shivering again and John understood that it was from the inside out, his body’s sense memory to pain and violation. “What happened then?”

“He patted my shoulder and told me to run off and play as if nothing strange had happened. He knew I wouldn’t tell. I went to the loo and there was some blood, but I had a meal to get through so I sat through all of the courses and I could feel his fingers in me the whole time.”

“And that’s why you don’t like Christmas foods. I wouldn’t either.”

Sherlock seemed surprised at this information. “The rest of the year, I can delete it, but it always comes back when I smell baking.”

“You had to be very brave to come home to all of the baking that I was doing. I am so sorry.”

“You didn’t know, John, and you shouldn’t have to know even now.”

“I need to know.”

There was a shadow of Sherlock’s usual defiance that quickly faded to confusion. “Mycroft says that I made the whole thing up, and sometimes I wonder if I did. Uncle David never touched Mycroft or his own children or any since.”

“You’ve made sure of it. Oh god, that’s why you go back every year. The Christmas dinners.”

Sherlock nodded with a spastic jerk. “Never again,” he whispered.

“Because you are watching him, love. Not because of any decency on his part.”

“No, it’s me. I bring out that behavior in men.”

“Why the fuck would you say that?”

Sherlock’s head shot up, his eyes searching John’s for the source of the anger. His shoulders sagged with relief when he knew it wasn’t directed at him, and John’s heart cracked further. He rephrased. “Who gave you the idea that you had anything to do with your uncle being a sick fuck?”

“Our priest. I was still bleeding the next day and afraid that I might die. God hadn’t been real to me in a long time but I liked the music and the nice clothes. I stayed after the service and Father Moore took me to his office.”

There was another serrated pause. John removed the mug that Sherlock was twisting in his hands until it creaked and set it on the bedside table.

Sherlock’s voice was small and weary. “He said that he believed me and I was so relieved, but then he said that little boys like me had an evil streak. I had used my beauty for seduction instead of good and corrupted my dear uncle. I wasn’t to come to the church for help because I was a danger to all righteous men.”

“That was his perversion, not yours.” Sherlock again looked surprised. “You have to know that. You were a child.”

“No, I was precocious. I knew what I was doing. I went back to school early, intending to kill myself and keep the world safe. Mr. Reggie sensed it somehow. He was my Greek and Latin teacher; everyone loved him. He was full of praise for my work. I used to crave praise.”

John nodded, the “used to” not ironic in the moment.

“He took me to his office and it was quiet, most of the boys not back yet. He made me tea as if we were friends.”

John noted the flush in Sherlock’s pinched cheeks, the sentences getting shorter, his voice getting higher.

“I told him all of it and then he pulled me in his lap and rocked me. I felt safe and that was new to me. Nobody ever comforted me like that until—“

“Until me?”

Another jerky nod. “But I ruined it.”

Sherlock’s fists were clenched and he was rocking, his body joining his mind in the past. “When I stopped crying, he still held me. He kissed my forehead just like Mummy used to do, and I put my arms around his neck and looked up at him. Then he was kissing me like I’d seen in movies. His tongue was in my mouth and it felt very good so I kissed him back.”

Sherlock whimpered, the next words coming between gasps. “There’s never been even a rumor of suspicion against him since. I’ve kept watch but he’s never even been alone with a child unless his door is wide open. That’s how I know that the priest was right. There’s something evil in me. Donovan sees it. Moriarity recognized it. Lestrade’s career has been stunted by it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were glassy and his breathing labored. The doctor in John came up with words like agitated, shocky, altered, but the lover was gritting his teeth until his jaw popped to keep from crying out. He wanted to make it stop. There couldn’t be more.

The next words were nearly a scream. “Have I corrupted you, John?”

“No, you saved me.” John was thankful for truth that came without hesitation. “Your love saved me.”

“No, that cannot be true.” Sherlock was shaking his head back and forth, tugging at his hair and John feared for his sanity.

He swallowed around the boulder in his throat and whispered, “I very much want to hold you right now. Can you bear to be touched?”

But he was the one held tight when Sherlock used his arms and legs to pull John into a desperate embrace. John worked his arms free and squeezed Sherlock around the middle as the ancient sobs poured forth like thick, black poison. There was nothing to be done but to breathe through each moment as the infection ran down both their hearts until John could almost smell it.

When Sherlock’s sobs had quieted and his grip on John was less panicky, John spoke the words that he would say over and over until they were believed, “None of this was your fault. You were a little boy. They raped you, body and mind.“

After that, Sherlock’s body shut down as if the trauma had just happened. He slept hard, fever driving out more poison, John clutched in his grasp like a teddy bear. Although John was angry with God, he tried to pray. His grief was too big for the human heart to hold.

After two hours, Sherlock began to stir, and it occurred to John that he was being given the chance to love the little eleven year old boy inside. He could replace some of the bad memories and maybe reclaim a bit of Christmas for him by babying him. For all of Maddy Watson’s faults, she had made sure that John was hugged and kissed and spoiled rotten when he was sick. John could give Sherlock that full attention and care. With the wound lanced, he needed to make the rest of the evening about soothing recovery.

So when Sherlock woke and released him, John was up to get a cool cloth and wipe Sherlock’s feverish forehead. He smoothed the curls back and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “You’ve come through a very bad time. You need to eat something, love, or you’ll be ill. Can you try for me?”

Sherlock nodded, his glittering eyes following John’s like a baby’s. “I’ll try.”

“Bring your blanket. You can curl up on the sofa while I make you tea and a sandwich. Something mild, a toasted cheese maybe?”

John settled him on the sofa with the remote for the telly and went to the kitchen. While he prepared the sandwich, he kept his mind studiously blank, the simple actions with bread and cheese his entire focus until he heard the familiar stuffy nosed accent of Rudolph.

He was on high alert, in the room and grabbing for the remote. “Sherlock, you don’t have to…”

“It’s all right. I think I need to. Then I can delete it.”

“Okay, but wait for me, please. You aren’t doing anything alone for the next few days.”

The fact that Sherlock didn’t argue was a significant indication of how shaky he was. John finished the sandwich and went to the sofa. He put crisps on the plate from his coffee table buffet. There was the tea as well as a large glass of water. Sherlock took a careful bite.

“All of the sandwich and all of the water. You’re dehydrated. Tomorrow we’ll get you a proper meal with some vegetables.”

No argument. After he took another bite, Sherlock put the remote in John’s hand and nodded toward the telly. John’s hand shook as he pressed the button. The story was charged for him now, his own loneliness over the years fading to nothing in the face of Sherlock’s solitary journey. He slipped his hand under the blanket to stroke Sherlock’s bare foot, marveling at the long toes that he could almost twine with his fingers. As if he knew, Sherlock curled his toes inward. John looked up to a tiny smile.

As they watched the lonely reindeer become a hero, it took all of John’s remaining strength not to let the tears come. He always cried a little over Rudolph but it was Sherlock’s turn this year. Just a few tears since he was mostly cried out, some of the confidence returning to his voice as he said, “I’ll watch it with you again next year, John.”

John couldn’t think beyond the next day, but he smiled and continued doing what he could to redeem the night. “Fancy a bath?”

“Yes. I got us some peppermint bubble bath and shower gel. You can even wash your hair with it.”

“They saw you coming, I think. We’d best do our holiday shopping together next time.”

“I passed over the candy striped Y fronts, John. I do have some resistance.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s foot and tucked it back under the blanket. He couldn’t seem to stop touching him as if there wasn’t enough comfort in the world.

“I’ll put the radio on. Why don’t you have a mince pie while I get things ready?”

“I don’t eat mince pies.”

John groaned inwardly. Everything about the holiday was charged, and he was still slipping up, offering food that had terrible memories tied to it. Love was rescue and courage, true enough, but it was also in the little things like keeping triggers away. Love was listening to horrific stories without flinching. Love was living with a picture etched forever in his mind of a small, sweet boy being degraded by a monster. Love was the seething rage that said kill what has hurt yours but knowing that revenge would only take him away from his broken lover and so vengeance was selfish.

John fetched bath sheets and flannels and put them on the radiator to warm. He found Sherlock’s shopping bag and pulled out the shower gel. Uncapped, the bottle released a mouthwatering chocolate mint scent. He shook his head at Sherlock’s extravagance. While he was flattered at being so showered with gifts, he was also sad that Sherlock felt the need to overcompensate.

In the loo, John sat for some time watching the minty bubbles rise in the tub. How was his heart still beating? How could he do ordinary things? He wanted to sob the whole story out into his grandmother’s lap while she stroked his hair. Part of him wanted to walk out into the rain and never come back to the ugliness and the ruined dreams. And the damnedest thing was that he was the ugliness. Sherlock had good reason for all the bits of himself that were abrasive, but what was John’s excuse? He had tortured the one bright spot in his life without knowing it.

He sighed and shook himself. It could not be about John Watson tonight or any time soon.

Sherlock needed his full attention and not out of any sort of egomania, but because the man was wounded with an infection that had been buried all his life. John would have to caretake now and have his own break down much later.

He turned off the taps and tested the water. This late at night, they could get it blistering hot because the rest of the house was settling in for sleep. Maybe the hot water would wash away some of the poison. Back on the sofa, Sherlock was curled under the blanket, eyes closed, listening or dosing, but John was pleased to see that four of the gingerbread men were missing heads and a mince pie was gone from the tray.

“Bath time,” he said.

John kept a steadying hand on Sherlock’s back as they walked the few steps to the bath. He was glad of the bubbles to hide nakedness, but he still wasn’t able to strip off like he normally would. There were too many pictures spinning in his head.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Too hot for me yet.“

Thankfully the ritual was in place. They went through it every bath time. Sherlock was a little reptile, soaking in dangerous amounts of fire or sun as if his long frame and pale skin would not retain their own heat. John was a human blast furnace and a hot bath could shoot his blood pressure up to pounding headaches and dizziness.

“If you aren’t coming in yet, would you wash my hair?”

John was relieved at the suggestion. It was something active to do, loving but not sexual.

“Use the new stuff.“

Grasping at normal, John risked a tease. “You are being quite the diva.”

“We’ve been living rough, John,” Sherlock answered, grateful for the attempt.

John seldom got to pamper Sherlock or take his time in the bath. It was a soothing thing for both of them, the smell of mint and chocolate, the warm water, the feel of Sherlock’s silky curls under John’s fingers. Sherlock turned his head this way and that, soaking up the love through his scalp.

When the last of the soap was rinsed, Sherlock said, “It’s cool enough for you now.”

John carefully hung up his new dressing gown and slipped behind Sherlock, who snuggled back against him with a sigh.

“Any better?” he asked, pulling Sherlock close.

“I feel absolved.”

“You are.” If tears rained down on Sherlock’s head, his hair was already wet.

Empty of the jagged secrets that had been cutting and scarring him for almost all his life, Sherlock was quiet. John had time to review the day. What were those words that had been running on his mental marquee earlier?

SELFISH

His friend had been hurt and scared for weeks, dreading the season, and John had decorated the flat to the hilt making it a minefield of unsafe sounds and smells that triggered horrific memories.

INFLEXIBLE

John Watson hadn’t been able to compromise even a little when Sherlock had prepared an amazing romantic evening as an alternative.

OBLIVIOUS

Sherlock had behaved like a porn star to please John by shopping for novelty potions and toys while his heart was breaking.

How were they ever going to get past this? The careful foundation they had worked so hard to build was crumbling. Once he recovered from the initial revelation, Sherlock would never be able to trust him again. In the morning, John would make tea and toast for him, take down every last decoration, and spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to his lover and best friend. But if he were in Sherlock’s place, he would never forgive the calloused way his needs had been ignored.

The water was cooling so he kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, love. Up you go.”

Sherlock was swaying with exhaustion as John took one of the warm towels, rubbed him dry, and dressed him like a child in the new purple dressing gown. It was nice to wrap something soft and warm around him. John eased him down onto the toilet to towel and comb his hair so there wouldn’t be tangles in the morning. He could spare him that small pain.

Catching sight of his face in the mirror, John expected to see cuts and bruises, but for someone that was shattered, he looked fairly normal. No one would have to know that he was crying inside as his relationship trickled down the drain with the last of the bubbles. Dragging the towel hurriedly over his skin, John reached for his new dressing gown. His fingers stroked across the family crest he hadn’t even known he had. “Beyond expectation,” he whispered.

Sherlock was dozing, his head hanging down.

“Come on now. Off to bed with you.” John tousled the dark curls. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s legs and buried his face in the soft plush over John’s belly. “I love you,” he mumbled.

John stopped. He might never hear those words again. “I love you too and I always will.”

Sherlock looked up at him with sleepy eyes, full of trust and hope. “Happy Christmas, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wanted to make a Christmas card for people who might not have a happy Christmas because of family secrets. If Christmas is dangerous or scary or sad or triggering for you, I want you to know that I understand. It sucks; it’s unfair, and many times the abuser walks away unscathed. I am not ready to say with total certainty that it gets better.
> 
> What I do know is that a year ago, I didn’t know about John or Sherlock or their portrayers and I wasn’t in a current fandom with so many fun and interesting people. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a surprise like that because you gave up too soon.


End file.
